


DJ

by TheSingerThatYouWanted (orphan_account)



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-11 09:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7043029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheSingerThatYouWanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Occasionally, just to ease the monotony, his boss- hah, his new boss, who  thought punctuated surnames made him look edgy rather than like a brainless twat who couldn’t reliably remember his own name- would up the torture by making him trek out to various asinine, drugs-and-electro music ‘festivals’, allegedly in the name of research. And he knew how much Dan hated travel.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>The man beside him was reading his article."</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A first meeting, a weekend in the middle of nowhere, and quite a small tent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a ridiculous length of time since I've written Dan/Jones fic, so this is really my attempt to get back into fic writing. This story has been kicking about in the back of my mind for about a million years (or, at least, about 8 months) and I'm hoping that actually getting some of it out into the world will help motivate me to keep writing.

Dan hated public transport. He hated lots of things but, in fairness, that was his job. Spit some of his bitter, furious bile on to two sides of cheap glossy paper and watch it lapped up by the very idiots it was directed at. Lather, rinse, repeat. And then occasionally, just to ease the monotony, his boss- hah, his new boss, who thought punctuated surnames made him look edgy rather than like a brainless twat who couldn’t reliably remember his own name- would up the torture by making him trek out to various asinine, drugs-and-electro music ‘festivals’, allegedly in the name of research. And he knew how much Dan hated travel.  
  
The man beside him was reading his article.  
  
Dan had been watching him for a while, even before they’d got on the bus. He appeared to be a couple of years younger than Dan, and judging by the heavy-looking flight crates he’d helped the driver heave into the hold Dan guessed they were headed to the same festival, albeit in a different capacity. Was he a DJ? It seemed likely, especially looking at the almost comically large headphones he was wearing around his neck.  
  
He couldn’t figure the guy out. He looked like just another Shoreditch refugee, all neon and LEDs, loud noise and garish colours and half a gram of speed in his back pocket. It would have been easier if he was, would have left Dan able to slip back into the familiar sneering disdain he so often hid behind. But every time Dan had seen the stranger interacting with anyone it was cheerfully and politely, thanking the pretty young girl who served him coffee in the kiosk at the bus station, apologising to the surly teenager whose foot he tripped over just as they were boarding. Dan didn’t know what to make of it.  
  
Swallowing slightly as he watched the stranger’s hair curl along his jawline with every sip of cheap coffee, he told himself that it was just this curiosity that had him staring. If there was one thing he didn’t need, it was to give Yeah? anything else to exploit. You know, on top of the general drunken misanthropy and desperate need for money that the git was already using to his full advantage.  
  
With a small nod and a sharply decisive snap of paper, the stranger closed the magazine and turned to Dan with the hint of a smirk on his lips.  
  
“Interesting opinions,” he said, and Dan felt a tug of satisfaction at hearing his accent, which placed him firmly in London. He’d been right about that, at least. The stranger’s eyes flickered over him briefly before he continued.  
  
“You’re hotter in person, though. ‘Scruffy hobo’ looks good on you. You should update your picture in this.”  
  
He indicated the magazine, flashing a sharp, sparkling grin, then paused with his head tilted slightly to one side as though waiting for a response. More than a little bewildered, Dan cleared his throat and held out a hand, the gesture awkward in the confined space.  
  
“Dan Ashcroft,” he said, aware that it was redundant but not sure what else to contribute. The other man shook his hand, short fingers paint-stained and calloused.  
  
“Jones.”  
  
Dan nodded awkwardly, swallowing. There didn’t seem to be much more he could add to the conversation. Perhaps he could have offered some comment if they were his words, but in truth he had barely cared about the event he was reviewing. Jonatton had simply printed out a checklist of controversial viewpoints and told him to get writing. Jones looked at him for a moment or two longer, then smiled and tugged the headphones over his ears and closed his eyes, leaning back into his seat. Conversation over, it would seem.  
  
For the next twenty minutes or so Dan attempted to read the trashy detective novel he’d picked up cheap at the bus station before they’d left, listening to the soft grumble of the engine and trying to tune out the chatter of all the other passengers. He guessed that at least half of them were going to the festival. They were pretty easy to set apart from the other people on the bus. The five teenagers in the corner, tents shoved under their seats, who were singing pop songs with an enthusiasm that suggested they were already drunk? Definitely likely candidates. The sixty year old woman across the aisle who was knitting a jumper that was fairly shapeless but made up for its structural failings by being almost eye-wateringly colourful? Maybe not.  
  
The book was, to put it politely, shit, in that special way that only bus station detective novels can be. Enough intrigue to force you to keep reading, but not quite enough to ensure you enjoy it. Throw in a cheap subplot about either politics or prostitutes- occasionally both, if you’re feeling optimistic- and you’ve got yourself a bestseller on all the ‘buy one, get one half price, and chuck them both in the nearest charity shop as soon as you’ve reached your destination’ lists. Dan gave up after chapter five (“In Which Yet Another Attractive Girl is Brutally Murdered, Somehow Paralleling the Struggles in Our Hero the Detective’s Personal Life.”) and shut his eyes. He might as well get some sleep while he had the chance. There was no point in wearing himself out if he didn’t have the chance to exploit it and annoy Yeah? by falling asleep at his desk.

*

“Alright, everybody off!”  
  
Dan gave a soft grunt that he was sure had been the word “what?” when it left his brain and forced his eyes open. The bus was conspicuously silent, the engine no longer acting as white noise beneath drunken singing. Blinking, Dan heaved himself upright. Outside he could see what looked like the very outskirts of a campsite.  
  
“Oi!”  
  
Looking away from the window, Dan saw the driver glaring at him.  
  
“Go on, out. I’m not letting you ride in circles all day. Last stop.”  
  
“Where’s the entrance to the festival?” Dan asked, standing and picking up his rucksack. The driver nodded back in the direction they had just come from.  
  
“Two stops back.”  
  
“Can you just give me a ride back to there?”  
  
“Not unless you’re paying,” the man told him with a self-satisfied shrug. Biting back a comment, Dan slung his bag over his shoulder and walked up the distressingly sticky aisle until he was face to face with the driver. Not breaking eye contact, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a crumpled five pound note. The driver eyed it for a second.  
  
“Exact change only,” he said after a few seconds, offering Dan a small smile. Dan knew that look. It wasn’t one worth arguing with, though a strong case could be made in favour of it being worth punching. As he stepped down from the bus the driver saluted him cheerily, two fingers touched briefly to his temple.  
  
“Thank you for choosing our shuttle bus service today, sir,” he called cheerily. Dan replied with a silent two finger salute of his own.

*

It took almost half an hour to walk back to the festival entrance. Half an hour of mud and straw shifting uneasily underfoot with every step. Half an hour of the straps of his bag cutting into his shoulders. Half an hour of trying to postpone the two realisations that are so inevitable after almost every long, uncomfortable bus ride; he was dying for both a drink and a piss, not necessarily in that order. Half an hour of watching other shuttle buses- different drivers, but the same garishly coloured logo emblazoned on the side- zip back and forth without stopping.  
  
Needless to say, he wasn’t in the best of tempers when he arrived.  
  
“Ashcroft. SugarApe,” he growled at the harried-looking twenty-something behind the makeshift desk. “I’m here to collect my press badge.”  
  
“I’m sorry, sir, but there isn’t a badge here under that name. Are you certain your office called ahead?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The young woman’s polished customer-service voice faltered for a second, presumably as she caught the look in his eyes.  
  
“If you like, I could check with my manager- I, uh, someone might have left it at our main office.”  
  
“Tent.”  
  
“Yes, sir. If you would give me just a moment…”  
  
She turned and hurried away, disappearing through the canvas flap at the back of the tent. Dan sighed, leaning against the table and burying his head in his hands. For a moment he could pretend he was just asleep at his desk back at the office. God, what a depressing thought. He was already so sick of his weekend that he was practically wishing for the company of Ned bloody Smanks.  
  
“Hey, Ashcroft!”  
  
Dan blinked, straightening up again to see the guy from the bus- Jones, was it?- bent double under the weight of one of his heavy crates, which was covered in chaotic splashes of paint. Inexplicably, he was grinning.  
  
“Jones?” ventured Dan. Jones nodded.  
  
“Mind giving me a hand with this? Event staff were going to help but I can’t find anybody, and my set’s supposed to start in two hours.”  
  
Dan glanced over his shoulder in one last vain hope that the kid helping him out would reappear, but unsurprisingly there was no sign of an obnoxiously yellow ‘event staff’ shirt topped by a worried expression. He nodded hesitantly at Jones.  
  
“Alright,” he muttered.  
  
It took a fair bit of negotiation to stack the boxes of equipment in such a way that they could carry them between them, but it was still quicker than waiting to be told where they were going. As they shuffled unsteadily past the staff desk and towards the gap in the canvas with a small sign labelled ‘artists’ taped to it, Jones paused, looking down at the floor in confusion.  
  
“Hey Ashcroft, ain’t that you?”  
  
Dan followed his gaze. In the mud beneath the table, trapped beneath one of the legs, was a crumpled press badge with a grainy approximation of his photograph in one corner. He sighed. It was going to be that kind of weekend.  
  
He stooped to pick it up, and a rucksack slipped off the top of the largest crate and hit him in the head.

*

“You’re here with SugarApe, right?” asked Jones, stumbling slightly in a patch of mud and smiling up at Dan. He nodded.  
  
“Reviews?”  
  
Dan cleared his throat, silently resigning himself to the younger man’s conversation.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Gonna review me?”  
  
He met Jones’ gaze, who wiggled his eyebrows. Dan hated to admit it, but spending the rest of his day with the DJ seemed like the best option open to him.  
  
“Alright,” he said, half a smile somehow finding its way onto his face. Jones’ smile widened, and he abruptly grew animated, almost dropping the box he was carrying as he attempted to gesture while he talked.  
  
“You’ll be with the artists then, right? Special camping. Basically the same as everybody else’s camping, but with less shit and a higher class of alcohol getting puked on your tent.”  
  
Jones giggled at the stunned look on Dan’s face.  
  
“First festival?” he asked. Dan shook his head, a distracted expression on his face.  
  
“Wait, go back,” he said, frowning. “Tent?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s camping only. Got to be in the middle of nowhere if we’re going to play this much shit at full volume.”  
  
Tilting his head, Jones looked at Dan quizzically.  
  
“You did bring one, right?”  
  
Dan didn’t answer, and Jones gave a soft, low whistle.  
  
“Shit, mate,” he said. Dan nodded in wordless agreement.  
  
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of their footsteps as they slipped their way through the mud, and then Jones looked up. Inexplicably, he was still grinning.  
  
“If you want, I’ve got a two-man tent.”  
  
Dan blinked at him in confusion, and Jones nodded understandingly and began to elaborate.  
  
“Well, there’s only one of me, right? If you want to sleep somewhere that isn’t actually outside, there’s room. Y’know, just if you fancied.”  
  
After a moment’s sickening hesitation, Dan forced himself to smile.  
  
“Yeah,” he muttered, not making eye contact. “Thanks.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! I finally found time to write this over the last few days, I think sticking with short-ish chapters is the best plan with this fic. Massive thank you to everyone who liked/commented, I really appreciate any and all feedback. Hopefully I'll be able to keep up updating this, it's really fun to write.

The stage, when they eventually reached it, was tucked away in one corner of the field, almost as far from the main stage as it's possible to be. To Dan, who had been expecting little more than a small table acting as a platform, it seemed practically alien; a futuristic array of wiring rising up off the ground and twisting around itself over and over again until a small performance space was created, suspended in the middle. He wasn't sure how much of it served a practical purpose and how much was just for show, but even so he had to reluctantly admit the effect was impressive. Half expecting Jones to explode from enthusiasm, he turned to try and gauge his response, and was surprised to see an air of detached professionalism settle over the DJ. He was nodding absentmindedly to himself.  
  
"Okay," Dan heard him mutter, "I've got this, just need to- Oi, mate!"  
  
Gesturing at one of the dozen or so people buzzing around the site, Jones bent down let go of his end of the crate. Dan barely had time to let out an undignified yelp and snatch his hands back before they were crushed, and then he was hurrying to keep up. Snatches of requests and instructions and friendly greetings floated back towards him as Jones walked forward. Only some of them made sense- "stage left," for example, was a phrase Dan recognised, as was "strobe lighting" and "half an hour"- while the rest were utterly indecipherable. Stagehands scuttled like beetles against the walls of the stage, laden with metal and plastic and calling out to each other in this strange language of their own, a mixture of jargon and slang that was utterly lost on Dan's ears, which, along with the rest of his body, were starting to remember that they still hadn't managed to find a drink. After a while Jones turned to him and grinned.  
  
"Sorry about that, mate. I'm running a bit late and I do trust these guys, but at the end of it I'm always gonna be paranoid about the state of my gear. Had to check everything's alright. Isn't that right, Jerry?"  
  
A passing technician- presumably Jerry- laughed and muttered some more of the strange gibberish in response. Jones pointed back at his crates.  
  
"Blue one's got everything I need for today. Just line it up and plug it in. Sure that's not too much for you?"  
  
Jerry replied with a gesture. This one, Dan did understand.  
  
"The tent's up already," continued Jones, "I bribed my mate on security to get us a decent spot. Rule number three of festivals, always be nice to gig security, 'cause they're lovely and if you ain't then there's a lot of ways they can be mean to you."  
  
Too lost to ask what rules one and two were, Dan simply nodded. Jones paused, tilting his head to one side.  
  
"You alright?"  
  
He started to nod again, but hesitated. He was at the festival to interview Jones, right? Or, at least, to interview the artists, and Jones was enthusiastic enough that he practically interviewed himself. Nonetheless, interviews were his job for the weekend. And interviews did, after all, require questions. He selected the first one which came to mind.  
  
"Can I have a beer?"  
  
Jones laughed and pointed at a low table with a cool box tucked underneath.  
  
"Further reasons to befriend the security team," he said with a smile. "Listen, I've got to go set up, but you can hang around and watch if you want. Get a sense for how the gigs are put together, sort of thing."  
  
Even as he was speaking he was backing away, fingers twitching over an imaginary keyboard in front of him, head nodding to a beat only he could hear. Dan smiled faintly and turned to head for the promised beer, dimly aware that Jones had practically sprinted for the stage to help Jerry check his equipment as soon as he’d seen Dan turn away. Making a mental note to consider toning down his savage pre-planned review just a little, he lifted the first can he could see from the cooler and sat down on a nearby crate.  
  
“Despite the horrific cacophony assaulting guests from all angles, and the sponsorship pressure so intense it’s a marvel visitors aren’t required to brand a company logo into their arm before entering, many of the performers seem to genuinely value the opportunity to sell themselves and whatever marketable talents they have. It’s not their fault that the buyers are too braindead to appreciate their dedication,” he muttered to himself around a mouthful of lukewarm alcohol, and smiled.

*

Setting up took almost forty minutes, though Dan spent the majority of it finishing up his nap from the bus journey, taking more than a little satisfaction in the thought that this time he was, technically, asleep on the job, and Jonatton bloody Yeah? couldn’t touch him for it. But even he, who had on one occasion slept through not only several alarms but also the floor of the bathroom in the flat above giving way and flooding his bedroom, didn’t stand a chance against Jones’ soundcheck. It wasn’t so much the music itself- though it was certainly a factor, seeing as it had apparently been composed by plugging together every instrument imaginable and a few that hadn’t been invented yet then hitting them with a stray cat before autotuning the result- as it was the sheer volume of it. He was pretty sure he actually felt his chair being forced backwards by the wall of sound emanating from the speakers.  
  
“What the fuck is that?” he yelled, looking up at the performance space. There, in the epicentre of the aural catastrophe, was Jones. Bass-boosted electronic shrieks sent vibrations humming through the field and visibly shook the platform he was standing in, but he didn’t seem to care. On the contrary, Dan was fairly sure he heard a very faint whoop of delight. After a few minutes of this, Jones gestured to a metal-laden technician and the sound began to fade as his various bits of equipment powered down. Jumping down from the platform, he walked over to where Dan was shaking his head in an attempt to clear the ringing in his ears. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing away the strands which had wrapped around his face during his set, and grinned.  
  
“So,” he said. “Thoughts?”  
  
“It’s definitely unique,” replied Dan, sounding to himself as though he was underwater, which made him feel a little sick.  
  
“Worth a five star review? Bearing in mind you’re sleeping in the bins without me.”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
Jones laughed.  
  
“Thanks, Ashcroft. Truth be told, it’s not quite my style.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Nah, I’ve got a lot better stuff at home. More experimental, you know?”  
  
He gestured vaguely, clearly trying to demonstrate whatever it was he felt could possibly be more experimental than the sensory assault he’d just delivered, then shrugged.  
  
“Big festival though, innit? So what you do is, you spin them a decent beat to get them jumping, an’ save the experimental stuff for when you know they like you.”  
  
Dan looked at him, lip curling slightly in familiar distaste.  
  
“I’d have thought the point of being an independent performer was to stay true to your artistic values, regardless of popularity.”  
  
Jones laughed, tilting his head back and letting his hair fall back over his shoulders.  
  
“You’re dreaming, mate. That’s the theory, yeah, but everybody’s got to eat. Don’t matter if it’s me or Mick Jagger, we’re all trying to make a living. You should know, if you’re a journalist. Haven’t you ever written an article complimenting something that bored you shitless just ‘cause you know it’ll get published?”  
  
Even as Dan tried to deny it, he felt a sense of inevitability close around him as Yeah?’s smug face floated through his mind. How could he disapprove of Jones when he thought about how easily his boss had managed to pack him off to this stupid festival?  
  
“Fair enough,” he said quietly, looking away from Jones and back out towards the performance space. A small crowd was beginning to form, maybe twenty or thirty people. Jones followed his gaze and laughed nervously.  
  
“My set starts in five minutes,” he said, though not to anyone in particular. “Thirty’s not too bad- that’s about thirty, right?- an’ more’ll show up once I get the speakers going. Alright. Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”  
  
He began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, his trainers making a faint squelching sound against the soft mud forming his dancefloor. Dan cleared his throat. Politeness wasn’t his strong point, never had been, but Jones was offering him a place to sleep. Besides, he was in a good mood. There had been free alcohol and it was almost twelve hours since he’d heard someone yell “Ashcroooooooft!” across the street at him.  
  
“Good luck,” he told Jones, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. “I’m sure it’s going to go well.”  
  
Jones turned back to him and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Encouragement doesn’t come out that mouth often, does it?”  
  
“Not really. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s alright,” said Jones, offering him a nervous smile. “I ‘ppreciate it.”  
  
There was a crackle of static as the speakers began powering on and the assembled flock of people began to cheer. Jones took one last breath.  
  
“Five stars, remember, Ashcroft?” he said quietly. “You promised.”  
  
Dan simply nodded towards the stage.  
  
“Your audience is waiting.”  
  
“Bastard,” chuckled Jones, and then he was through a door and bounding onto the stage. As he ran he snagged a microphone from a stand and raised it in the air, amplifying the crowd’s cheering back at them again.  
  
“Are you ready?” he screamed, the modified mic distorting his voice almost beyond recognition. The crowd yelled an equally unintelligible response, and he beamed.  
  
“Alright then,” he laughed, high-pitched and alien through the speakers, reaching out towards his decks.  
  
Just in time, Dan remembered to cover his ears, but that didn’t stop the wave of sound knocking him a step backwards as it hit his chest. 

*

When the set ended half an hour later, Dan felt a little bit like he’d just been in a fight. Standing right next to the speakers had left him surprisingly shaken, and he was fairly sure he was starting to lose hearing in his left ear. Jones staggered off the stage to enthusiastic applause from a crowd that had doubled in size. Most of the original audience had wandered off once they’d realised what his music actually sounded like, but a surprising number had stayed, and yet more had made their way over. Dan privately suspected it was more morbid curiosity than actual appreciation that had drawn them to Jones, but then again, something about the music was, in a strange way, growing on him.  
  
“How’d I do?” Jones asked between gasps for breath, coming slowly down from the high of the performance.  
  
“Five stars,” replied Dan, deadpan, and Jones gave a breathy laugh.  
  
“Brilliant. Wait here a sec, yeah?”  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Jones pointed towards one of the technicians.  
  
“What’s rule three, Ashcroft?”  
  
“Be nice to gig staff.”  
  
“Exactly. Now give me a minute.”  
  
He ran over to the technician and shook his hand. For a few moments they stood, the techie smiling as Jones talked animatedly. Not long after, Jones returned, grinning broadly. Something plastic clinked in his pocket.  
  
“There’s always one who knows where the drinks tokens are kept,” he told Dan as he walked past, making Dan turn hurriedly to follow. “Thank him for his help, he’ll give you as many as you like. The guy running the tech team always wants their artists drunk and their assistants sober, makes their job easier. So, what do you say? Can I buy you a drink?”  
  
“I’m not-” Dan started to say, then stopped. Jones rolled his eyes.  
  
“Relax, I’m not demanding anything from you. What, you think I’m bribing you with drink and pillows until you agree to marry me? Or, at least, shag me behind the portakabins?”  
  
“I… no,” muttered Dan. “Sorry.”  
  
“I’m not looking for a boyfriend, Ashcroft, I’m looking for a better review. Although, if you _wanted_ to shag me behind the portakabins…”  
  
He paused, waiting to catch a reaction, then tilted his head and grinned.  
  
“I’m kidding,” he told Dan. “C’mon. Beer.”  
  
Despite the crowded and disorganised nature of the festival, Jones seemed to know instinctively where he was going. As he followed the DJ across the busy field, Dan wondered what he’d even been trying to say. “I’m not gay” would have technically been true, “I don’t make a habit of sleeping with men” more so, but even so, he wasn’t usually so quick to become defensive. Just as his thoughts were threatening to become overwhelming, he felt a plastic cup being pressed into his hand. He looked up into Jones’ sparkling eyes.  
  
“Alright?” he asked, though it didn’t quite seem like a question. Dan nodded anyway.  
  
“C’mon then.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“Where d’you think, Ashcroft? It’s a festival, and I’ve not explored it yet. Anywhere.”  
  
“Dan,” he replied, almost involuntarily. “I’m sick of hearing ‘Ashcroft’.”  
  
“Alright, Dan. We’re still going exploring.”  
  
Exploring. In a damp field full of the kind of people Dan spent most of his time trying to avoid. He gulped down half his beer, wiped his mouth, and nodded.  
  
“Lead the way.”

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of these things, except an overactive imagination. All comments/kudos/any form of feedback are greatly appreciated, as always.


End file.
